Chapter 21
Victor
I’ve never been challenged the way the last weeks have tested me, but it’s proved to me that I’m stronger than I imagined. I wasn’t so sure when I was promising it all to Seva, but he was in no state for uncertainty. He needed a rock, and I made the decision to be one for him.
It’s surprising even to me that I’ve managed to step up to the challenge. Maybe I was the one underestimating myself. Maybe I can be more than I ever dared to dream.
Of course I loved it when Seva doted on me, but when the roles got reversed, I felt no less love for him.
If anything, my affection only took root, and is no longer a flimsy sand castle to be washed away with the first strong wave.
I can now see myself always at his side and able to withstand any storm life throws at us.
I’ve never been more certain of anything.
The damaged parts of the house are now mostly restored, but there were issues Seva had neglected and which he couldn’t deal with on his own.
The men making repairs in the studio and at the main entrance broke his resolve to never let in any visitors, so he agreed to let in a team of plumbers next, to make repairs in one wing of the house.
With how busy I was minding the workers, I’m glad we have a Sunday to ourselves at last. I can imagine Seva is happy too, since for once he doesn’t need to be confined to the panic room for most of the day.
Still, while his physical condition improves each day, he remains moody and quiet in ways he wasn’t before.
I don’t even sleep in bed with him, and have a place on the floor instead, because touching his upper body can still be too agitating for him.
I return to the newly renovated studio with a pot of coffee, and see him by a fresh canvas. My heart leaps with hope, because he’d been only trying small-scale projects so far, but could this return to his favorite medium be a sign of true improvement?
He must have done the blue underpainting in the morning, while I was cooking, and now he’s dipping the tip of his brush into the dot of burnt sienna on his palette. I’m still bandaging his hands each day, but the treatments I’ve been implementing are working.
There were moments when I regretted not disobeying Seva and calling for an ambulance, but the day he got injured left me without any doubts about the danger to his life.
It was either risking his health by treating him at home or putting him in a vulnerable position at the hospital.
And I made the right call, regardless of the side-effects.
“Hungry?” I ask as I walk up to him with a sandwich. I’m still no great cook, but I’ve learned to make a few things for him. When he was finally able to chew with more ease, I made him the lazy dumplings with cinnamon, and they came out quite good.
I put my hand on his shoulder for a bit of touch.
I miss the easy way in which he was all over me whenever he pleased, but with the state of his hands, I wouldn’t dare rush him into anything.
I’m not sure he’s ready for kissing either, since his lips got badly burned.
The last thing I want is to push him too far too soon when he’s even given up on his usual routine and insists we should wear clothes.
Overall, I think I did a good job treating him with the supplies available.
The dark patches where the state of his skin was the worst have now paled, and the scabs that appeared where it broke are gone, but the flesh still appears swollen, and on the left side, where the burns were most aggressive, his skin is reminiscent of dough that’s been handled carelessly.
Uneven, somewhat twisted, it spoils the angelic features he used to have, but nothing could make him ugly. To me, he is still the man who can endlessly talk about art, who protected and fed me, the man who showed me what love means. I will wait for him for as long as it takes.
Is it delusional? Oh well, I didn’t arrive at his house because I’m sane.
A sharp huff leaves Seva’s lips as the brush in his hand trembles, spraying some of the paint around the spot where he likely wanted to put the color. “This is hopeless.”
I steady his hand and help him put down the brush on the table.
“It’s not. It’s been barely over a month since the accident.
You’re walking, speaking, healing well. Just two weeks ago, you weren’t able to hold the brush for more than a few minutes, so just look at the progress.
” I kiss the top of his head, but I finally look at the underpainting, and I realize the figure has no face.
I hope this is a call back to the work he did before his grand face reveal, not a comment on how he feels about himself.
“This might be the best I can ever do. I might never be able to go back to the kind of painting I used to do,” he says, frustrated, and as he faces me, the sun coming in through the huge window sinks the uneven spots on his burned face in shadow.
It’s so tough to see him this despondent, in a studio that used to be full of important items and unfinished work.
Now, even with the salvaged art brought back in, it seems as empty as Seva’s expression.
I pull a chair closer and sit next to him.
“I think you’ll recover well, especially with how it’s been going so far, but in the meantime, let’s think out of the box.
Seva, you are so talented. If the issue is with the detailed work right now, how about you go bigger.
I can prepare a larger canvas for you. Pete is happy to wait for your next painting, so why not experiment? ”
He laughs, but nothing about the way he looks at me is humorous.
Dark locks of hair fall into his eyes. Seva has been combing it that way since he realized the fire damaged the outer half of his brow and burned off a small patch of hair on the same side of his head.
“Easy for you to say. I had plans. So many paintings I never managed to create outside my head.”
I stay silent for a while. “Nothing about this is easy. It’s torture to see you in so much pain and be able to help only so much. But if we can survive this, it will get better, and you will paint anything you dream of. I believe in you.”
I know he’s suffering both inside and out. He has nightmares every night. He talks about the self-portraits he’s lost to the fire, sometimes he even talks about his face. About the threat of nothingness.
I soothe him through the nightmares the best I can and never mention it to him when he’s awake.
“If I can’t hold a brush, how can I protect us?” he mumbles, looking away.
I take my time to answer while I gently grab his hand. I’ve been mulling over this for a while now, but the timing never felt right. I can only hope he doesn’t take offence at my proposition.
“I’m sure you can. You designed this house for this very reason, but I’ve been thinking…
As terrible as it is what happened, could it possibly be an opportunity to leave?
No one’s seen you. No one knows about the accident.
You said it yourself that you don’t even know how many enemies you have.
This threat will never end if we stay here.
We could leave all of this behind now that they won’t be able to recognize you. ”
I feel him stiffen before I can see the physical evidence of it, the deep-seated paranoia ringing in alarm while I offer a solution incompatible with the way he’s planned his life. But Seva doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t shout.
After a moment of uncertain stillness, his shoulders slump. “The house is safer.”
“A, it isn’t. B, is this really what you want to do? Do you not want to travel? See more of the world? Your style has already changed so much since I arrived. Even your paintings won’t be an obvious giveaway once you show them to the world.”
I know I’m pushing, but it’s been brewing in me for a while now and I must make him see reason. Otherwise, the topic will die for another few weeks, and who knows how much time we have until another attack.
Once again, that ugly laugh.
Seva hangs his head, turning away from me. He’s separating himself from me. Withdrawing. “Travel? With a face like this? Are you joking?”
I can’t let him do this. Not to me, and not to himself.
I get up, and I can only hope it doesn’t hurt him when I put my fingers against his cheek.
“Seva, please don’t. When we met, did you lie about liking my face?
The weird eye, the freckles, how my nose isn’t really in the center of my face?
You told me there’s beauty in the asymmetry. You’re just more unique now.”
He opens his mouth, sucking air as if he’s drowning. “It’s different! You were born that way. I—I lost my face, so stop pitying me!” When he pushes my hand away, I can’t help my eyes stinging.
“It’s not pity! You’re still stunning to me. Because of all you are and all you represent, because of who you are as a person. I… I don’t know how else to explain it. I’ll show you.”
I walk off in frustration to grab the sketchbook I’ve been self-conscious about showing him. Still, I gather the courage and push it into his hands, hoping he’ll understand when he sees .
Seva shakes his head but opens the sketchbook with care.
Even now, he doesn’t disparage my work. I’m nervous about him seeing it, because I’ve been drawing his face throughout his recovery.
The scars, the blisters filled with fluid, abstract textures based in the stages his skin has gone through are all there.
But that’s not all I’ve poured onto the pages.
As he flips through the book, face carved in stone, more of my inner world is revealed.